What I knowabout the tops of swing sets,paint peeling over rust spots,the arc of the swoop,all the land falling silent,the curve of the earth.

It was a momentbefore gravity coaxed us back down and physics hurled us up again,chest out and flying, having joy, having fun,singing “Seasons in the Sun”over and over and over.We surveyed the concrete tunnels,the sun-bleached dirt expanse of second grade off Juan Tabo.

Within the year we’d moved to cities of grass and we flew under the shade of trees,over two levels of soccer fieldsand a forest beyond that,tetherballs obsessively circlingover spots of asphalt.The third-grade boys were already chasing birdsbut we chose to fly, fly, fly.Everyday our feathers rent flying,wind-riding, sailing off the seatand landing in the soft dirt spotworn into the Missouri grass.

One day my bird friend Laura landed on the rootof a big oak tree, hands first.She stood up, dusted off, and walked with southern poise to the nurse.When she came back that afternoon she was grounded in a white wrist cast.

And the boys caught her after that.

This was my workshop assignment this week, to write about nature in the vein of poet Mary Oliver. The closest I could get was to write about my childhood playgrounds in New Mexico and Missouri.